Only One Kind of Ending
by janthelibrarian
Summary: John is hiding a terrible secret. What could have happened to make Sherlock kick John out of the flat? Will he really go? Will he be able to stay away?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

I fold the last of my clothes neatly into my case and snap it shut with a faint but firm click. That's done then. I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay.

"I never thought it would end like this."

"Really, John?"

I jump at the sound. I should have known he'd be watching, even though he'd shut himself in his room the minute I'd walked in the flat.

"I suppose you were expecting it to end in happily-ever-after?" His voice is cold, hard, mocking. It's the voice reserved for other people. People he despises. Not me. Not until now.

"No, Sherlock. I didn't expect happily-ever-after." I push past him with the cases to the kitchen. "And do you know why?"

He watches me pack my kettle and favourite cup into a waiting box. He knows what this means, but his frown turns quickly into a sneer to cover it up.

"Because we don't live in a fairy tale. Obviously."

"No, Sherlock. That's not why."

I turn to face him. Meeting his eyes isn't the hardest thing I've ever done. And I know I'll have to do even more difficult things in the next few years. But it still takes most of what I have left to do it.

"It's because there is only one kind of ending, and it is never happy."

He blinks. I have surprised him. Good. Let him dwell on that long enough for me to get out of here.

"John…"

"Stop it, Sherlock. You've asked me to go—no, demanded I go—and that's what I'm doing."

Anger flashes across his face before he turns to flop into his chair. I get back to work picking out the few things I can truly call my own and depositing them into the boxes.

"You can't say this was entirely my idea, John."

"Really? How exactly was any part of you saying you never wanted to see my face again for the rest of your left _not_ your idea?"

"You could have argued." The words are as small and broken as I feel. As I am. Which is why I have to do this.

"I did, Sherlock. I did. The first time. And the second and the third. The fourth time I left and came back, swearing to give you just one more chance. That chance turned into the fifth and sixth times."

Everything is packed and ready. I have nothing else to do. No reason to stay here. Except one, and he's the very reason I need to leave.

"I'm done arguing. And I'm not coming back."

I toss my keys onto the table. They hit the wood with the finality of a coffin being nailed shut. Sherlock keeps his eyes focused on them, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. Most people wouldn't see it. Only I knew what it means. He still doesn't believe.

"Greg will be round in a couple of days to collect the boxes. If I've missed something just throw it in with the rest."

"Staying with Lestrade, then? Making him cart your stuff around needlessly seems a poor way to repay him."

Oh, God. Can I really do this?

"I've taken a job in Cardiff."

He looks up sharply. I give myself the moment to memorize his face. This face. When I've said something he truly didn't expect. When his mask slips just enough for me to see the man behind. The man I could love. The man I could hate. The man I admire. The man the world needs far too much to allow a distraction like me.

"Deduce that." Then I turn my back on the best thing in my life.

The weight of the cases increases exponentially with each step I take, as though Sherlock emits some inverse gravitational field that grows stronger with distance. This might actually be true. After all, he is universally admired, loved even, by people who have never even met him. Yet he pushes away those closest to him.

By the time I reach the street I'm too tired to be surprised or angry at the dark car waiting there. I don't have the strength to fight another battle. I doubt I even have the strength to raise my arm enough to hail a cab.

The driver takes my cases and I slide through the open door next to the elder Holmes. His eyes are not accusatory. And for once, they do not seem to hold all the answers.

"You are headed to the detective inspector's, I take it."

"For a while," I admit.

"I would be happy to assist you during this transition…"

"Just take care of Sherlock."

"Always."

I search his face, and see that he knows. Of course he knows. But what's more, he understands.

"Does it have to be this way, John?"

"You know it does."

He nods, and if Mycroft were capable of human emotions I might say he looked sad.

"Thank you."

"I think, Dr. Watson, you are the one who deserves our thanks."

* * *

I come home from a particularly long day at work to find the rest of my boxes. Only it isn't really home, it's Greg's flat, a temporary stop until I find something more permanent. Not a home, though. Only one place will ever feel like home again.

"Thanks for getting these," I say, grabbing a beer and moving unconsciously to help finish preparing the meal. I'm still not used to not having to do everything myself.

"When I agreed, I never really thought I'd have to do it. Last time you only stayed two nights."

"I think I've found a place. Be out of your hair soon. And thank you again for letting me stay here."

Despite Sherlock's frequent denouncements to the opposite, Greg is no idiot. He knows I'm trying to change the subject. I've been doing so the last five days. I'm not an idiot either. I can see he's not going to let it drop this time, and I steel myself for his words.

"What happened, John? I know it's not the usual. Not this time."

I have thought of a thousand ways to answer this, but only one seems right: the truth, or at least part of it.

"You know how Sherlock is. He leaves body parts in the fridge, forgets to eat and sleep, dashes off after criminals in the middle of the night expecting everyone to follow along or get out of his way."

"He's always been that way, mate. I won a bet at the Yard for being the only one who thought you'd stick with him more than a month. So what's different now?"

I sigh. "It's too much. He's too needy. I have a life of my own he doesn't even know exists and I realized I can't…"

"You can't sit around waiting for him?"

I nod, relieved. Good old Greg. Sherlock may not give him much credit as a detective, but he has looked at all the facts and come to the logical conclusion. The completely logical, completely wrong conclusion.

If I had been forced to finish that sentence, it would have been _I can't be the man he needs me to be anymore_.

* * *

**A/N: So what do you think? Are you intrigued? Do you want more? (Yes, this is my shameless cry for comments!) Also, I like to work in movie quotes or references but had a hard time with this one, so I'll give you a hint. There is a line inspired by ****_City of Angels_****. Can you find it?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

I read the name on the chart and sigh. It has been three weeks and two days since I moved out of the flat. Not that I'm counting. I lied to Sherlock about the job in Cardiff, but I knew he wouldn't come looking for me. I should have expected she would.

"Molly! How nice to see you," I say in my best chipper-doctor voice.

"John, it's good to…How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? Let's see…Headaches and trouble sleeping. When did all this start?"

"Well it didn't really…What I mean to say is…"

"You could have just called, you know."

"I would have but…I didn't think you'd…"

God, can't the woman ever finish a sentence? It's no wonder Sherlock…No! I won't go there. I force myself to smile.

"You didn't think I'd talk to you unless you made an official visit?"

She nods, as submissive as I've ever seen her be around Sherlock. And of course that's why she's here.

"Next time use the phone and save us both the paperwork." My words come out harsher than I'd intended. I know I'm being a twat but I can't help it. I've worked so hard to stay away, to keep myself from even thinking about the man. Then she shows up and it's like I just took that first step out the door all over again.

Molly flinches and shrinks even farther into herself. I grit my teeth and force myself back into the role of doctor.

"All right then. Up on the table."

"What? But I'm not really sick."

"No, but you're here and I might as well give you a quick check over. You're paying for it, after all."

She smiles, reassured, and sits quietly while I check her pulse, respiration, and reflexes. I'm thinking maybe it will be all right, maybe she just wanted to check up on me and her curiosity is now satisfied, when she speaks up again.

"He misses you. He'd never say so, of course, but I see it. He'll be examining a corpse and have one of those brilliant insights and turn to tell you about it before he remembers you're not there."

"I'd have thought he'd have replaced me by now." My words are terse to cover the surprise I feel, and I duck down to examine Molly's ankles for the same reason.

"Oh, he could never replace you. You're…"

"I was never more than a set of ears. A tool. Someone to show off for. Before me he had a skull. I'm sure he'll find another one soon enough."

"I was going to say you're his friend." Molly's voice is tougher than I've ever heard it. I catch the use of present tense as well.

"Maybe I was, once."

"What did he do, John?"

I realize I can't hide under the table all day, nor can I ignore this question. Molly, like everyone else, assumes this is the result of something Sherlock did, some mistake he made, as if the man were even capable of making mistakes. Maybe I can let Greg and the others reach that conclusion, but not Molly. Sherlock needs her too much.

"He didn't do anything, except ask me to leave. I'm the one who screwed up."

"You?"

"Yes. It was my fault, and we've both moved on now."

I see her grappling with this, wanting to believe in Sherlock but having far too much faith in me.

"Was it something…personal?" she finally asks.

That seems as believable as anything. Half the Yard, hell, half of London, assumed we were a couple anyway. I know it breaks Molly's heart to think that Sherlock has given his to me, but I don't see any other way. I just nod.

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

"You, Miss Hooper, are in excellent health. May I walk you out?"

We are halfway to the waiting area when Donna, a pretty nurse, young but quite good at what she does, interrupts us.

"Dr. Watson, Dr. Michaels would like you to stop by his office before you leave for the day. He has the test results and wants to discuss some alternative options."

She moves her hand, just a fraction of an inch, but I see what's coming. She is about to do something all medical professionals know how to do, even though we are never trained to do it. The comforting hand on the shoulder, the look of sympathy without pity, the words that encourage hope without offering false hope. I know this because I am a medical professional as well. But I can't let her, because so is Molly. She will see and she will know. And she will tell Sherlock because even after all these years she is still helplessly in love with the man.

"Thank you, Donna." I say, turning away abruptly before she can complete the gesture.

I escort Molly out and we exchange the obligatory hugs and promises to keep in touch. I have two more hours. Two hours until I hear the news that isn't really news, then I can go home and allow myself to remember.

* * *

I set aside an hour three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, to remember. So far, I haven't thought about those times, those seven times that led me here. But the news was worse than I expected. It actually surprised me, and I somehow feel the need to continue that pain.

I get a tea, set the alarm, and settle in. This hour will not be over quickly enough. I will not enjoy this. But I need to do it nevertheless.

* * *

The first time came during a long and trying case. We had been on the streets for at least thirty six hours, during which time I slept approximately ten minutes during a cab ride. And we still hadn't caught the killer. We were only home so Sherlock could review his notes, adding in the new information and shifting it around in his great brain until it fit together like a puzzle that, once completed, you can't understand how you didn't see it before.

"I'm making tea, and then we are both eating a proper meal and getting some sleep."

"Boring. No time." Sherlock was as dismissive as usual, but I wasn't giving up. If I could at least get him to eat a few bites and rest his eyes a short time I would consider it a victory.

I burnt my hand trying to pour the tea. I was so tired I could barely see straight. Maybe that was a warning, but I ignored it.

"Sherlock, tea."

I stretched my arm across the coffee table to deliver the beverage and that's when it happened. Some kind of spasm, a muscle twitch or tic, no doubt brought on by fatigue. Whatever the cause, the result was the same. Tea splashed over every paper, every bit of information Sherlock had gathered so far.

"John!"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'll clean it up."

"Just leave!"

I sighed, used to his outbursts by that time. "Fine. I was going to head to bed anyway."

"No. Leave. Leave the flat. Leave me. I can't work around all your bumbling."

I froze at that. He was just blowing off steam, probably wasn't even aware of what he'd said. But I was, and it hurt. I retreated to the kitchen to grab a towel. Without a word I began to dab at the documents, salvaging as much as possible. When it was done I stood and faced Sherlock.

"We can talk about this tomorrow."

If he heard, he gave no indication, far too engrossed in rearranging the papers into whatever order made sense to him. I looked at the sopping towel in my hand, tempted to throw it at him. Instead I hung it neatly across the back of a chair to dry, promising myself to toss it in the wash tomorrow.

"John!"

I literally jumped at the sound of his voice, and then braced myself for more accusations and angry words. No one could do snits like Sherlock Holmes. Instead he beamed at me.

"You're a genius!"

"I am?"

"Of course. The towel. Don't you see? The towel in her kitchen was hung up, but clearly had been used to clean up a spill during the altercation. A killer wouldn't have done that. We've been looking in the wrong direction."

He was back at his notes, both physical and mental, shifting them into their new locations.

"You got that because I spilled the tea?"

"Naturally."

"So does that mean I don't have to move out?"

That earned a quizzical look. "Why on earth would I want you to leave when you're so helpful?" The smile seemed genuine, and it warmed my heart. Even though I knew this new development meant the end of any plans I had for catching a couple of hours of sleep, it all seemed worth it.

That was the first time Sherlock asked me to leave, and I thought it was a fluke. I thought then we could work through anything. How could I have been so wrong?

* * *

**A/N: Any ideas so far? I know I haven't revealed much of the back story yet, but theories are welcome. Did you catch this chapter's movie inspired (mis)quote?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

It has been five weeks and six days since I've seen Sherlock, not that I'm counting. Of course, I have seen him. In the papers, on telly, in the pictures I pull out every so often to torture myself. Perhaps I should have left the city. Then again, it really doesn't matter if I'm on the other side of London or Cardiff. I could be halfway across the world or on the dark side of the moon. Sherlock is never far from me, no matter how hard I try to restrain him to those three precious hours each week.

I know, too, that he knows where I am. No one would have told him, not his brother or Lestrade or even poor, sweet Molly. No one needs to tell Sherlock anything he wants to know. Then again, maybe he doesn't want to know. He did, after all, force me out of his life.

No, that's not true. I can fool just about everyone, but not myself. Sherlock prides himself on being a talented actor, feigning interest or sorrow at crime scenes, assuming roles he believes will gain him access to the information he covets. But he's got nothing on me.

I catch the train of my thoughts and realize I should set the timer a few minutes short to make up for those I have already given over to him. I don't though. I want as much time as I can have, even though it leaves me broken more often than not. I know today will be one of those days.

* * *

The second time I nearly agreed with him. We were at Bart's, using their lab to analyse data gathered from the most recent crime scene.

"John, put this in the centrifuge for me."

Sherlock held out a small vial of blood and I grabbed it. I'm sure I grabbed it, yet as soon as he let go it tumbled to the floor, its crimson contents spreading out like the last rays of a dying sun.

"Oh my God." The words fell out of my mouth quicker than the vial.

Sherlock didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the pieces of shattered glass in their red pool. He didn't speak, but I heard him anyway.

"I don't know what happened. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, John," he spat venomously. "Apologize to the woman whose rapist and murderer is going to go free because of your carelessness."

"I'm sure we can…"

"We can't," he roared. "That was the last sample. The last chance we had." He stood up and pushed the microscope away with a sickening screech across the countertop. Finally he turned to me, and I had never seen his face so black. "That was the last chance."

"It was an accident, Sherlock. For God's sake, we all have accidents."

"I don't." His voice was calm, and that scared me far worse than any shout. "Nor can I afford those around me to have them."

"I'll clean this up."

"Don't. Just leave."

"Leave the room?" I asked, that first time not nearly as forgotten as I'd hoped, "Or leave you?"

"Take your pick."

I almost did. I had never considered myself particularly helpful on Sherlock's cases, but never before had I felt I was actually standing in his way. He said I did, when I forced him to sleep or eat or simply take a moment to slow down and step back from it all. He didn't mean it then, because in the end he dove right back in and accomplished what he'd set out to do. This was different.

But I hadn't faced down enemy snipers and medical school and countless enemies on his behalf to let him cow me now.

"No."

"What?" It seemed in the three seconds since he had last spoken he had forgotten I was there.

"No, I won't leave you. I'm going to stay, and clean this up, and help you figure out how to solve this case. That's what we do."

We stared at each other for what had to have been at least half a lifetime before he turned away and started muttering to himself again. So I did what I always did, working in the background and generally trying to stay out of his way.

Eventually he looked up to stare at nothing, yelled something about a headboard, and shot off with me following closely behind. The entire incident was forgotten, or so I thought.

Because I certainly didn't forget it. In the weeks and cases that followed I became, for lack of a better word, shy. When I had to handle evidence or cups of tea or really, just about anything, most of my concentration was on it. I so desperately wanted to avoid another mistake.

Then one day I realized Sherlock hadn't forgotten either. Naturally, he saw and observed and remembered every bloody little thing.

"Put this into an evidence bag for me." He held the bottle of perfume out behind him almost negligently, as if mocking my efforts to be so very careful myself.

"With your right hand, please," he added without even looking.

"What?"

"Take the perfume with your right hand and put it into an evidence bag. Surely that is a simple enough command for even you to follow."

I did as I was told, but planned to lay into him just as soon as we were away from the crime scene and relatively alone. I didn't get the chance. The moment we passed beyond the yellow tape he let it all fly.

"Your left hand is trembling again. The first time, with the tea, you were undoubtedly fatigued, allowing the condition to resurface. Then in the lab with the blood you were nervous about it, which only increased the chances of a repeat occurrence. Since that time you have been hyper aware of everything your hands touch, which, incidentally, has made you even slower than usual."

"So, you think my tremor is back?"

"It _is_ back, John. Pay attention. I thought you would have worked that out for yourself, being a doctor. This constant anxiety is making the condition worse, of course. As I respect your intelligence, I assumed you would eventually realize this. But it seems I was mistaken. Now, however, we are both aware of the situation, and aware that the other is aware. The tension should resolve itself and go back to normal."

I stopped walking, and he took several more of his long strides before he noticed and turned back to me.

"And if it doesn't?"

"I just told you, it will."

"But if it doesn't? What then? If you can't trust me to assist you without blundering around having accidents all the time…what then?"

Something passed over his face then, a look I had rarely seen him wear: uncertainty. He covered it quickly, but I couldn't un-see it, couldn't pretend the idea didn't take him off guard.

"You can still assist me in other ways, John. You have made yourself quite useful most of the time. I rely on you to interact with the mundane people, to help me understand how a normal mind works. You're much better at that than my skull ever was."

"So that's all I am? Another tool in your crime-fighting utility belt?"

He didn't understand. The bloody genius looked at me without the slightest bit of comprehension of what I was asking.

"I find you useful in many ways, John."

"And when I'm no longer useful? Tell me, Sherlock, _what then_? We already know my brain can't keep up with yours and my hands are becoming inadequate. What if I can't run as fast as you anymore? Or shoot a gun anymore? What happens when I become more of a hindrance than a help?"

I swear to God the thought had never occurred to him. He had gotten so used to me being there, doing whatever he needed. He never doubted himself, and somehow that infallibility had been transferred to me as well in his mind. But I wasn't like him. I was a mere mortal, as the tremor had confirmed.

He processed this data. I could see him work it around, try it out, predict the outcomes.

"If you are no longer useful I won't _need _you around."

I was almost relieved to have the hope shatter in my chest. There had been a chance, small though I knew it was, that perhaps he needed me for something other than solving cases and fetching milk and preventing him from being evicted. I had almost allowed myself to believe that we were more than flatmates and colleagues, that maybe we were actually becoming friends.

Now I knew. Stay useful, stay with Sherlock. Simple equation. Perhaps I should have walked away then, but damn if I didn't want to be useful for as long as possible.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for all the lovely feedback. I might possibly be as addicted to it as I am to Sherlock. :) I know I'm telling this story out of sequence with these flashbacks, but that's the way it came to me. Any Adam West fans out there catch the reference?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

Ten Weeks and three days after leaving Baker Street (not that I'm counting) Dr. Michaels calls me into his office at the beginning of the day. I know what's coming, and I'm strangely okay with it. My caseload has been increasingly lighter, and those patients I've been allowed to see could have been handled by a first year medical student.

This situation was only ever temporary. Each week a tidy sum was deposited into my bank account from an untraceable source. Though enough to live on by itself, I wanted to hold it in reserve, knowing I would need it later. Stephen was desperate for another doctor at the time, and while not quite as needy myself, I appreciated the chance to continue working. The pay was not great, especially considering I was overqualified, at least I was back then. But I considered it a win-win situation.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Have a seat, John. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

He pours a cup and hands it to me before resting on the front of his desk. Not a formal conversation, then. Good. We're old friends and I'm glad he feels comfortable enough to talk to me as one, rather than a subordinate.

"I'm going to have to let you go. You're a damn good doctor, but with your condition…"

"It's okay, Stephen. I knew this was coming and I'll be fine. Really."

He sighs, the rest of his consolations dying on his tongue. He returns to his chair and pulls a card out of a drawer.

"I know you want to keep working as long as possible. I agree that's a good plan, so I've put out some feelers and found you another job."

"You didn't have to."

"I know, but I wanted to. It's a damn shame, John, what's happening to you. If I were in your place…Well, let's just say I'd like to think you'd do the same for me. Now this isn't the greatest opportunity in the world, but I think it will fit you…now."

Now. Meaning something I can handle. Something that won't put me in a position to do more harm than good. Now is me, broken and practically useless.

"So what is it?" I ask with false good-nature.

"Dr. Brett is getting ready to retire soon. He's got a new flock of first-years he's chasing around, but he'd rather spend his last year in the operating room. He agreed to take you on as a consultant. You'll keep an eye on the new ones and report back to him."

"Sounds great." A consulting doctor. Maybe not the only one in the world, but still pretty unique.

"Excellent." Stephen lets out a breath, and I realize he thought I'd be insulted. "You can catch up with Dr. Brett at St. Bart's and he'll…"

"NO." The force of my own voice startles us both. "I'm sorry, but I didn't realize it would be there. I can't do it. Not there."

"It's the best opportunity I found, John."

"So you've found other things as well? What are they?"

"Clerical, mostly. Filing and reviewing."

"Great. Give me those names and I'll make the calls myself. I hope you don't mind if I drop your name."

"John…"

"I'm sure you've got patients. I won't keep you any longer."

His shoulders droop before he retrieves a few other cards and passes them over wordlessly. I take them and head for the door.

"Good luck, John. I'm sorry as hell for all this."

I don't respond. It takes only a few moments to gather the few things I have around my office. I have intentionally left as much of myself out of this place as possible, knowing this day would come. It was a wise decision, as I want to get out quickly.

I'm not surprised, and I'm not mad. At Stephen. The world, yes. And when I see the sleek black car waiting I know I've found an outlet for all the rage I couldn't express inside.

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft. I just found out myself not ten minutes ago. How did you get here so bloody fast? Or did you have Dr. Michaels on your payroll this whole time? Did he tell you before he told me?"

"John…"

"Don't worry. It's fine. I've got something else lined up. I don't need more money. I'm sure you already know I haven't touched any of it anyway."

"John!"

"And you know, I have a phone. You could save the taxpayers a lot of money by using it instead of having your posh driver bring your posh arse in this posh contraption to bother me. Or sending someone to kidnap me. You know, that really…"

"JOHN!"

I finally look at him then, and the world slips away.

"Sherlock?" My voice is thin and insecure, fear seeping through the sound.

"He's at hospital. Fell out of a third story window. Pushed is more accurate. He's broken an arm and his collar bone and has a concussion."

Guilt rips though me. I should have been there. I could have prevented this. Or maybe I would have made it ten times worse. I can't trust myself these days. Why would Sherlock trust his safety to me?

"He'll be all right." I'm not trying to be dismissive. This is a simple fact. He is Sherlock bloody Holmes and he will always be all right.

"Yes, he will, as long as he rests for the next few days and takes it easy for a month or so after that."

I snort. "Good luck with that."

"I was hoping, Dr. Watson, you could be of some assistance in that department."

"No way. No. Absolutely not." I just turned down a pretty decent job offer to avoid the possibility of running into the man by accident. I am not about to face him willingly.

"You're the only one he listens to."

"I was."

"You're a doctor, John."

"Actually, as of about twenty minutes ago I'm not."

"You know the kind of irreparable harm he could do if he doesn't take the time to heal properly."

"Then drug him up. Or hire one of your goons to keep him locked up. I'm done being his babysitter. Let me out. I don't care where we are, just stop the car."

Mycroft does not move, gives no outward sign, but a minute later the car coasts to a stop and I step out, only to find myself at home. Bloody Holmeses. He knew I would refuse, but came for me anyway. Just to make me suffer.

Two can play at that game. It is not my usual day or time, but I know how to make myself suffer more than Mycroft and all the British government could ever hope to. I don't bother with the tea or the timer. I simply curl up on the couch and remember.

* * *

Two months passed after Sherlock diagnosed the return of my tremor and laid down his ultimatum, and we didn't talk about it. The tremor didn't go away, and we didn't talk about it. The tremor got worse, and we didn't talk about it. I didn't drop anything, mostly because he stopped handing me things. He even took to fetching his own tea. And we didn't talk about it.

Then one day I came in with the shopping, aggravated over having to wait in line twenty minutes to have a real person ring me through since I refused to use the chip and pin machine.

"You forgot the milk. Again."

He didn't even turn to look when I came in. How could he have known? He was right, of course, but that didn't make me any less grumpy about it.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll go back out."

"You've already done."

I stopped short. Blinked. Couldn't understand.

"You came in nearly an hour ago without the milk and went back out to get it. Now you are back with more groceries but no milk. Again."

He was wrong. Or fooling with me. I was in no mood to play his games. I hauled the bags into the kitchen to put everything away. Only it was already there. Bread, jam, beans, pasta sauce. All there, just like he'd said. I pulled the list from my pocket. I really had gone out and bought everything twice, except the milk which Sherlock had shouted about at the last minute and therefore hadn't made it on the list.

A cold fear seized me. I wasn't a genius, but I could connect the dots.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, watching without comment as I continued to stow away the duplicate items. I knew what he was going to say. For once I saw and observed and knew what it all meant.

"Right then, I'll just go and pack."

"You're leaving?"

"That was our agreement. Once I stopped being useful you didn't want me around. I'm a man of my word, Sherlock. I'll clear out, stay with Greg until I can find something else. I won't be in your way anymore."

I couldn't understand the look on his face, but then again I didn't really try. I pushed past him before my traitorous tear ducts could betray me. I wasn't ready for this. I thought if I tried hard enough I could remain valuable for years. I never expected my mind to go before my body. It seemed I was losing both, and they were taking Sherlock with them.

* * *

**A/N: I've given up with the movie quotes. I'm getting too emotionally invested to take the time to work them in. I sincerely hope none of you readers have gone through anything like what John and Sherlock are going through here, but I hope you can understand anyway. By my calculations, I should reveal everything in chapter six, which will hopefully be up by New Year's, and may or may not be the final chapter. Thank you once more for the reviews and favorites. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

Mycroft has the sense to keep his mouth shut when I show up at Sherlock's room. The pleased little smile says it for him. _I knew you'd come_.

Fine. I'm here. I have no plans to stay. I will check on the man I once considered my best friend and then return to my self-imposed exile. He will never even know I've come. I already pulled a few strings and found out he is in a medically induced coma and will be unconscious for at least the next twelve hours

So why am I here? Why am I smoothing the hair back from his brow and holding his hand? Why am I whispering words I know he can't hear? Why am I letting myself remember?

Because I want more than anything to be there for him, to be back with him, roaming the streets and laughing at crime scenes and cooking food I know he won't eat. I want to protect him. And to do that, I have to remember why I left in the first place.

* * *

Greg was amused when I showed up that evening carrying nothing more than a pillowcase stuffed with a few changes of clothes and the essential toiletries. I knew, deep in my heart, I wouldn't be staying away for long.

"Blow up the flat again?"

"No. The flat is fine. Sherlock's fine. I just need to get away. Do you mind?"

He let me in and plied me with beer, hoping to coax a few Sherlock stories from me. I would have thought he had plenty of his own, given they'd known each other far longer. But I realized, as we swapped memories, that while Greg had more, I had better. He had known Sherlock for many years before I came along, but had never _really_ known him, at least not like I did.

I stayed that night and the next on Greg's sofa, but the following day he told me in no uncertain terms I was to accompany him to a crime scene and yes, Sherlock would be there and yes, I was going to go back to him and no, he would not take no for an answer.

And once I was there, with Sherlock, everything fell back into place. He bounced ideas off me, called me an idiot, ordered me to go find out why a group of teenage girls was standing around giggling, and finally pronounced me brilliant when all I really did was carry the information back so his brain could put the pieces together.

Greg somehow had my things delivered back to the flat. I was grateful, since after solving the case Sherlock and I went for Chinese and walked home like old times, like I'd completely forgotten I had left. Which I had, but I chose not to dwell on that.

The happy reunion lasted all of four days.

"John! We have a case. You'll want to dress warmly. Lestrade said something about a freezing unit."

"I can't go, Sherlock."

"Have you seen my black gloves?"

I handed them to him and repeated myself. "I can't go with you. I have…plans."

He heard me that time.

"I'm sure your date can be rescheduled."

"It's not a date. It's just something I have to do and it can't be rescheduled. I'm sorry. If you haven't solved this in the next two hours I can join you when I'm done."

"You don't want to go with me?"

"I do, but I can't. Aren't you listening?"

"I am, and I'm hearing you say you have something more important than helping me."

_Oh, God. What have I done?_ I had just essentially told Sherlock that I was not only unable to be useful, but unwilling as well. And if the fear that I could make that kind of error wasn't so profoundly overwhelming, I would have cancelled my appointment. But I was terrified, and that was exactly why I had to go.

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock," I said before he could beat me to it. "I will be back and I will help you in whatever way I can. I just really have to do this first."

That carefully controlled face gave away nothing of what he was thinking, so I was left to wait, like a child who had just begged permission to stay the night at a friend's house, while he made up his mind.

"I'll text you the details." Then he left without a backward glance.

I made it to that crime scene in time for him to wrap everything up, but he seemed pleased I had put in an appearance even if I hadn't been around to assist.

We had two more cases before I got the phone call. Fortunately Sherlock wasn't around and the doctor made time for me to come see her right away, so I didn't even have to make an excuse for going out to another appointment. Unfortunately, I was only halfway home when my phone buzzed and of course, he needed me immediately. How could I refuse? Stay useful, stay with Sherlock. I had to make the most of it.

But I couldn't. Sherlock recreated the killer's timeframe and all I could think about was my own. He pointed out evidence and I saw test results. Someone mentioned a stroke of luck and I found myself wishing I'd had a stroke. I could have handled that, recovered from it. I was, in a word, useless that day.

He solved it anyway, of course. He didn't really need me after all.

The cab ride home was painfully quiet. What I needed to say, what I hoped against hope he wouldn't say, invaded the space until I could barely breathe. Somehow I survived, made it up the stairs and into the kitchen for that best of all medicine: tea.

He once again filled the doorway, just like he had before I'd left not even two weeks before. I knew what was coming. Again. But all I could think was _not yet, please God, not yet_.

"John, why did you come back?"

"I live here. And they call you a genius." My attempt at humor rang hollow between us.

"We need to talk about this."

"No. I'm not ready. Just, give me some time. A couple of weeks. Please."

He frowned. Not angry, like I expected. Not impatient, eager to get rid of me. Concerned, maybe. Worried that I would be in the way, I guessed. But he only nodded, granted me my reprieve.

That was the last time I argued against leaving.

I tried to tell him. I really did. I wanted him to know I would have stayed with him forever if I could. He needed to know the truth. Or maybe I needed him to know. I needed him to know it wasn't my fault I wasn't useful anymore.

But every time I imagined the conversation it came to one of two endings. Either he would be calm and rational and possibly even kind, but still tell me to go. Or he would be what I desperately wanted him to be, and he would beg me to stay for no other reason than that he wanted me around. That prospect was what convinced me of what I had to do.

I didn't have to try hard, just let nature take its toll. I dropped plates, stumbled into him as we walked together, forgot to do things or did them several times without realizing it. I had to ask for help buttoning my coat sometimes. He watched, patiently, always with a questioning look in his eyes.

I don't even remember what put him over the edge.

"It's time for you to go, John."

The words, so long expected, still took me by surprise, ripping a hole through my very soul.

"Go where?" I had to play this just right.

"You need to leave. You're in my way, in the way of my work."

This was what I wanted. But I couldn't stop myself from trying to pretend it wasn't. Because it wasn't what I wanted all. It was simply the way it had to be.

"All right, I can pop out for a while."

"Not just a while."

"Fine. I'll take a holiday. Maybe I'll visit…"

"I want you out, John. For good. I never want to see your face again for the rest of my life. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Quite."

I had to get out of there immediately, before he could see how I really felt. I stepped out into the cool air and cursed it for being so fresh and alive when everything good about my life was dying. I walked for probably an hour, saying goodbye to everything on Baker Street. Except Mrs. Hudson. She couldn't be allowed to know I was leaving until it was too late. She would give Sherlock hell for sure. The image of her scolding the tall and imposing detective was enough to dry my eyes and slow my breath. When I was sure even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to detect my inner agony I returned for the last time to 221B.

**A/N: That's the last of the flashbacks. If you're trying to count the seven times, you might have realized Sherlock didn't actually say the words most of the times, but John heard them anyway. Thank you for the follows and favorites and comments. I love telling these stories to myself, but I love even more when other people read and enjoy them. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

I have no idea how long it has been. And I _was_ counting, trying so hard to remember. I think it has been at least four months, but might be six. A year? Surely not.

"Five months, one week, and one day."

_Thank you, Sherlock_. How did he know what I was thinking? Oh yeah, because he's in my head, not really here. Where am I anyway? The last thing I remember was stepping out to hail a cab. I'm sure if I could just open my eyes I could make sense of it all.

"Don't, John. Just rest. I'll get the doctor."

But I'm the doctor. No, that's not right. I'm not. Not anymore.

Cool hands touch my face. A warmer, softer hand slides into mine.

"Dr. Watson? I'm Dr. Brett."

I should know that name, but it's all mixed up with everything else.

"You were in an accident, Dr. Watson. You fell and were struck by a cab. You've been unconscious for eight days. Can you try to open your eyes for me?"

See, I knew I was bound to face more difficult things than leaving Sherlock. I just never expected opening my eyes to be one of them. It hurts, actually hurts to pry my eyelids apart. As soon as I've got them open just the slightest crack I have to shut them again quickly as the light stabs directly into my brain.

The warm hand leaves mine and I can sense a difference. I try again, and this time I can open my eyes just a bit wider and leave them that way. Someone has turned out the lights.

"Excellent. You're a professional, so I'll be blunt. You have some pretty severe lacerations to your face and arms. You suffered a concussion and five broken ribs, along with fractured wrist and torn kneecap. One of the ribs pierced a lung, but we were able to repair the injury and don't expect any lasting damage."

It seems only yesterday I was looking down on Sherlock while he recovered from similar injuries. I try to focus on the face swimming in front of me.

"I fully expect you to recover from the injuries you received during the accident. But we need to discuss your overall health. Your friend tells me you haven't been taking your medication."

I don't have any friends. I've pushed them all away. And the only people who knows about the medication are Dr. Michaels and Dr. Janka, who diagnosed me originally. They couldn't possibly know that each day I remove a pill from its bottle, toss it in the toilet, and flush it down with my morning piss. It's quite satisfying to watch it swirl away. So symbolic of my life.

I realize the doctor, the other doctor, not me, is still talking. It's too hard to concentrate on his words, and I'm so tired. The room has gone dark again, and I open my eyes quickly, just to make sure that's all it is. Satisfied, I let myself fall back again into the blackness.

* * *

I have no idea how long it has been. I should. Why can't I remember?

"Five months, one week, and two days."

I open my eyes, and this time the lights are already dim so I can keep them open. It's easier to focus, though when I try to turn my head to the side I feel like it might fall right off.

He leans over, so I can see him.

"How did Mycroft know about the pills?" I'm sure I have a thousand better questions to ask, but that's the one that comes out.

"He didn't." Sherlock, it really is Sherlock, looks…odd. Ashamed? Frightened? Maybe not Sherlock after all.

"I was concerned that you weren't responding to the medication the way you should, so I set up cameras in your flat about a month ago."

I groan, and it sends bolts of pain across my chest and through my head. I close my eyes and stifle a second groan.

"He told you."

"No. I told him. I may not be a doctor, John, but I've lived with one for several years. I saw the signs. Plus there was all that research on your laptop."

I can't prevent my eyes from flying open again. "I changed the passcode. It was nothing but a random string of numbers and letters."

"Yes. You finally learned. I had to set up a camera to record you entering it before I could break in."

"You and your bloody cameras. Is there one on me now?"

"No. I had no need."

I try to make sense of that around the fuzziness in my brain. "You mean you've been here the whole time?"

"Nine days. Lestrade brought clothes. Mrs. Hudson brought food. Molly let me shower in the morgue. I don't recommend that, by the way."

"But…"

Sherlock moves to sit on the side of the bed. He picks up my hand. Warm and soft.

"Haven't you figured it out yet? You're my friend. My only friend. My best friend. I care about you. It's not an advantage and yet I do."

"Then why did you make me leave?"

"I have never been able to make you do anything you didn't want to do."

Oh yes, I remember now.

"Come home with me, John."

"I can barely move."

"Not now. Obviously. When you're healed. Come back with me to Baker Street."

"I have Parkinson's, Sherlock. I'm falling apart."

"I know, but you're not. You never even tried. You can get better, or at least slow it down. You've got a long life ahead of you. Spend it with me. Please. You don't have to do anything. I promise to help out more around the flat and not drag you around on cases, unless you want me to. I'm not asking you to do anything except be with me and let me take care of you the way you've always taken care of me."

"You can't fix me, Sherlock. I'm not a case to be solved."

I look away, away from those eyes begging me to be something I can't anymore. Those lips saying what I once hoped they would say when I thought I could tell him, before I realized he would never want me as broken and useless as I've become.

Wait. What did he say? I look back, and see that for once, he has it all wrong. I run through each one of those seven times, plugging in this new information and it fits. I see now what he thought, what he really meant.

"You think I left because I was protecting myself?"

"Naturally. My lifestyle is dangerous and far from healthy. I knew you wanted to leave but were trying to protect my feelings. That's why I said those awful things at the end. I had to make you believe I didn't want you."

I laugh. It hurts, but I can't stop.

"What?" The look of surprise and incomprehension is worth every stab of pain.

"I did that for you. I made you not want me. I couldn't help you the way you needed. You said yourself if I was no longer useful you wouldn't want me around. I made it easy for you to realize that was the case."

"Oh, John. You really need to pay more attention. I said if you weren't useful I wouldn't _need_ you around. I never said anything about wanting. And I do. I want you with me. As it turns out, I was wrong anyway. I do need you."

It is too much. Too much information. Too much emotion. I can feel myself slipping away again, and briefly wonder what drugs they have given me.

"John. Stay awake just another minute. This is important. You told me once there was only one kind of ending, and it is never happy. I don't know if you're right or not. But I do know there is so much that comes before the ending. It can be happy. Let's be happy, John. Let's giggle at crime scenes and watch crap telly. We can eat food from every country without leaving our flat. We can do anything you want. We can do nothing at all. But let's do it together and be happy. For as long as possible."

"Would that be useful? To be happy with me?" I ask, fighting the darkness with the last of my strength.

"The most useful thing in the world."

I can't make my mouth work enough to answer, but he's brilliant so he probably already knows. I will stay useful, and stay with Sherlock. Until the end.

* * *

**A/N: To anyone who has or has a loved one with Parkinson's, I sincerely apologize if I got anything wrong. This diagnosis was only briefly on the table for my mother before being abandoned in favor of Lewy Body Disease. I tried to refresh my memory with research, but I know it's a poor substitute compared to living through it. The reason I chose Parkinson's rather than LBD or Alzheimer's was because I felt it offered more hope. Which leads me to…**

**A/N #2: Would you like an epilogue? I have an idea in my head, but I'm a little reluctant unless I hear you want it. There is, after all, only one kind of ending. Shall I tell you how I imagine it would be?**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.**

**Time Frame: Unspecified**

**Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions**

**Rating: T for language and angst**

**Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

It has been thirty two years, seven months, and five days since I told Sherlock there was only one kind of ending. I know because we marked it on the calendar and celebrated each year. Perhaps the day I came back might have seemed a better choice, at least to most people. But that day was important to us. Also, I secretly relished the memory of the one time Sherlock got it all wrong.

I moved back in with him as soon as I got out of hospital. My body healed from the injuries and responded quite well to the medications once I started taking them. The memory loss and confusion I'd experienced on occasion was eventually discovered to be the result of intermittent sodium deficiency, not related to the Parkinson's at all and easily rectified.

I went back to assisting Sherlock on cases, and he found a new passion to take up the times in between. Despite my frequent protestations that I didn't want him to fix me, I found the research a welcome change from his previous experiments and bouts of boredom.

And of course, he found answers. Not a cure, but more effective ways to slow the progress and even reverse some of the damage. If he'd had more time, he probably would have found a cure. He could have solved all the world's problems.

It has been thirty two years, seven months, and five days since I told Sherlock endings were never happy. I was wrong.

Sherlock was happy, when he passed several months ago. He was happy to have had all those extra years with me. He was happy to know he had made a difference, lived an eminently useful life. He wasn't sad or scared. He was as happy that last day as he had been in the thirty two years since we had pledged ourselves to it.

I was happy, too. Not that that he was leaving. I _was_ sad and scared, but happy too. I was happy for the pain of his loss, because it reflected the joy we'd had. I was happy knowing he would be at peace, and also that I wouldn't be long in following him.

So here I am. Sherlock wasn't allowed the time to discover a cure for the cancer that eventually took him or the one that was about to take me. But it's okay. I'm ready.

"Grandpa? Why are you smiling?"

"I'm happy, Blake."

He sniffs a bit, and my son holds him closer, trying to hide his own tears.

"I'm not happy," Blake admits with a wail. He is only seven. He will understand someday.

"I've lived a good, long life. I've known such fulfillment and happiness. I'm surrounded by the people I love. It's time for me to move on."

"To Heaven?"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't believe in Heaven or God anything he couldn't see and feel and manipulate. At least he claimed he didn't. I know better. The last thing he said to me was _I'll be waiting for you_. I have no doubt he will be. And we will be happy.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Your reviews mean the world to me. Thank you so much for your support.**


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